Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
It had been a week since Dean had come into my apartment, insulting my furniture, then making my panties wet directly afterward. I fell asleep, thinking about the way his voice had sounded in my ear and how he had smelled so completely masculine. It was a very dangerous, slippery slope that I was ready to fall down. In the heat of the moment, nothing else mattered. It should have. It should have mattered a lot.
Then, Cam called.
Dean left.
There had been no texts, calls, or glimpses of him since then.
This was a good thing. It was what needed to happen. I was glad he had put distance between us. It needed to stay that way. I knew this. But in my dreams, I often forgot all that.
Damn him and his sexy, dark, tempting voice. I continued icing Mrs. Jo’s cake with little rose flowers I had learned to make from a YouTube video. I had other things to do than think about Dean Finlay all the time.
Gavin had called and asked me out again. I’d had to cancel our last date because of the water damage and just not being in the mood to go out. He had asked if we could try again next week and offered to help with anything in my apartment that might need his expertise.
I should have let him come over and help me move the entire sofa frame onto the balcony to dry in the sun. Because it was starting to smell bad. I had bought it years ago at a secondhand shop for twenty-five dollars. It was more than I could afford, but I also needed somewhere to sleep. The single bed Cam and I had been sharing was getting too small for both of us. He was almost six, and I had wanted him to have his own bed. Something I had never had as a child.
Now, there was a good chance the wooden frame was rotten and wouldn’t hold up much longer. I could afford another used sofa, but admitting that would mean Dean was right. I just didn’t want him to be right. Maybe I was being stubborn, but I wanted to be right.
The cake was complete, and although it wasn’t professional, I thought it’d turned out pretty. I reached for the bag of party items I’d bought for Mrs. Jo’s party to find the candles. While I was placing the number seven candle and the number eight candle on the cake, I realized that my getting to celebrate with her was thanks to Dean. He’d expedited getting her moved back in. She had so much new furniture, and she was thrilled with it all. She’d shown me around the place with pride the day she moved back in. He had even replaced her old light fixture in the living room with a ceiling fan. The way she talked about Dean, you’d think he’d invented the wheel.
A knock on my door was followed by the sound of a key in the lock. I glanced over my shoulder to see Clara, who I had been expecting. She was wearing a short white leather miniskirt and a yellow crop top. I envied her the ability to wear tops like that. Smaller boobs were just so much easier. You could wear all the stylish tops, and you looked thinner.
“If you ever want to quit the college, you could go into cake decorating,” she said as she looked at the cake. “That’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks, but I think I will keep my day job,” I replied.
Clara couldn’t toast bread without burning it. She was easily impressed. I could have put peanut butter on toast and then placed a marshmallow on top with a candle sticking out, and she’d have thought it was great.
“Probably best. It comes with health insurance,” she agreed, then grinned at me. “So, tell me, are you going out with Gavin or not? Did you decide?”
Ever since I had told Clara about Gavin, she’d been driving me nuts, pushing me to go on a date. It was as if it were her life mission to get me laid this summer. She thought sex fixed everything. Maybe for her, it did, but I didn’t see it that way. Sex complicated things. It made people act differently. I was perfectly content with my vibrator and memories of Dean Finlay pushing me against a wall. That was something I’d never admit though. Admitting it would mean I was an idiot. No, I was an idiot for getting off, thinking about the man. Admitting it would be sharing my idiocy with others.
“He wants to go out tomorrow night. I think I’m going to go,” I told her instead.
She threw her arms in the air and yelled, “Score!” as if this were a football game and she were still a cheerleader.